


the beauty of a secret

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma knows this is wrong. It doesn't stop her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the beauty of a secret

**Author's Note:**

> ilosttrackofthings said: ""No one needs to know.” for biospec!" and...well...*shrug* I'm not sure about this, since my last attempt at smut was so horrible, but the muse wants what it wants, I guess.
> 
> Title is from Halsey's _Strange Love_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

This is bad. Bad and wrong and _terrible_ , the worst thing she’s ever done, Jemma is so far across the line between right and wrong she’s not even in the same _galaxy_ as moral behavior—

“No one needs to know,” Ward breathes, and it feathers over her skin, raising goosebumps on her neck. “It’ll be our little secret.”

The _no_ she means to say somehow becomes _yes_ on its way to her mouth, and once she voices it, she doesn’t take it back.

She’s a little busy kissing the enemy. Again.

His mouth is hot and hungry against hers as his clever fingers find their way into her jeans and then her knickers. She’s wet for him, embarrassingly so—a relic of her horrid, humiliating crush, that all it takes is a mocking word and a sharp smile from him to turn hate into desire—and at the first slide of his fingers between her folds, she breaks away from his kiss to gasp for air.

As she struggles to breathe, he kisses his way across her jaw and down her neck to bite the base of it, to suck a bruise into the sensitive curve where neck meets shoulder. It’s too much sensation—his fingers inside of her and his mouth at her neck, his other hand fisted in her hair, keeping her where he wants her—and all she can do is clutch his shoulders as she whimpers. She’s hot all over, burning from desire and the heat of his skin, trapped between him and the door, and her whole body throbs in time with the pounding of her heart.

This is so, so wrong.

It’s hard to believe they’ve never done this before—and that difficulty is nothing to do with how often she’s dreamt of it and everything to do with how quickly he winds her up. Somehow, impossibly, he knows exactly the right way to touch her: precisely fast enough to have her grinding down onto his fingers, just _barely_ on the right side of too rough.

"Yeah, you like that," he says, insufferably smug, and oh, she used to dream about this, about his voice dark and low in the scant space between them. "Don't you, sweetheart? Knew you would."

She'd like to fire back with something, take him down a peg, but all she can do is squirm as he drives her higher. She’s _dated_ men who didn’t know her body this well. How is he this perfect on the very first—the _only_ , she reminds herself sternly—try?

Incredibly, absurdly soon, she’s on the edge, and his timing proves to be as commendable as his skill. At the same moment his thumb flicks her clit, he crooks his fingers just _so_ , and he catches her mouth with his at the perfect second to muffle her shout as she comes.

Her orgasm crashes over her in waves, drawing out and drowning her as he works her through it, distracting her so thoroughly that she forgets to kiss him back. He doesn’t seem to mind; his lips move to her ear instead, that he might murmur about how beautiful, how perfect she is like this—how good she looks when she’s his—

Those are a lover’s words, not an enemy’s. She doesn’t mind as much as she should.

Once her orgasm and its aftershocks fade, he slips his fingers out of her, removes his hand from her jeans. She could cry at the loss—at how _empty_ she feels—but tears accomplish nothing. Instead, she releases his shoulders (her hands ache from how tightly she was gripping him; she imagines he’ll have bruises, and doesn’t hate the thought) and trails her hands down his chest.

(She doesn’t _need_ to, but why deny herself the pleasure?)

“I don’t suppose,” she says, still a touch breathless, as she unbuttons his jeans, “you have a condom?”

Better to fill her emptiness than bemoan it—and really, what’s one more line crossed?

“No,” Ward says. He’s still leaning into her, hand flat against the door beside her head, and it ought to feel like a threat, this murderer looming over her, but it doesn’t. All she cares about is the way his rough voice shudders through her chest. “I don’t.”

That should be the end of it, really, because her birth control pills are _not_ 100% effective and who _knows_ where he’s been and what diseases he may be carrying?

But if she’s considering _should_ , she _should_ never have let him touch her in the first place. She shouldn’t have kissed him or shoved his shirt over his head or let him finger her in a closet like some—some _idiot_ who sleeps with the enemy.

She’ll take her chances.

“Oh, well,” she says, and kicks her shoes off—the better to remove her jeans. “I suppose we’ll just have to do without.”

He laughs, low and amused, and she shivers at the throb between her thighs. Her mind and even her _heart_ , foolish as it is, know better than to want him, but her body doesn’t care about his crimes. Doesn’t care about common sense or morals or anything but his strong hands lifting her off her feet to pin her against the door, his rough thrust, how he feels inside of her—

It’s too much and not enough at once. Her legs are around his waist; she squeezes tight, counts on him for balance as she pulls her shirt off, and is rewarded by his attention to her breasts. She doesn’t know precisely what happens to her bra; a quick roll of her hips and a slight change in angle white out her vision, and when it comes back he’s biting at one of her breasts while he palms the other.

Somewhere in this building her team is undoubtedly missing her. _His_ team (if the cadre of dangerous and disreputable looking thugs he arrived with can be named such) knows exactly where he is and what he’s doing.

There’s something significant in that, but—

His stubble scrapes against her skin, and she buries a hand in his hair, arching up into him, moaning his name. Her whole world narrows to the heat of his mouth and the rhythm of his thrusts and how _solid_ he is, how _real_ after so long spent fantasizing.

Her body doesn’t care that this is wrong.

The rest of her does. Just not enough to stop it.


End file.
